Dirty White Van

I’m walking to work, earbuds in, scrolling through a playlist on my phone, when a dirty white van slams to a stop beside me. The side door slides open. Heavily armed men in balaclavas jump out and take up firing positions in doorways and behind parked cars. I know enough not to panic and run. We’re all illegals in their eyes. We’re all listening for our names. A prisoner is being led down the street. He’s barefoot, his hands bound with barbwire. Tonight, returning home from work, I’ll pass him hanging broken-necked from a lamppost. God is a joke that nobody gets.

Circa

We were taken off the train at night. “What are those bonfires?” I asked. At one point we seemed to be following Beethoven’s footsteps through Vienna. I still think about it when I see Nazis marching into Austria on the History Channel. Although democracy was dead, women and young girls were smashing jars of blood on the sidewalk in a ritual protest. My hearing cleared with frustrating slowness. Experts admitted to doubts that the 2,000-year-old skull found under layers of ash was Pliny the Elder. It may just have been a warning that we’re a danger to self and others.